


Maybe That You're Mine

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Competition, Dancing, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since arriving on the set of Dancing With The Stars, Bellamy Blake has been a thorn in Clarke's side. She's supposed to be able to trust her partner, but it isn't until late in the game that he surprises her with just that. Now, though, with that tentative bond formed between them, she isn't sure where to go next. Especially when their next number is asking something even more from the both of them.</p>
<p>{ Written as a prompt for Bellarke Fanfiction blog }</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe That You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a prompt submitted to the BFF blog: "Bellamy is a professional dancer on Dancing with the Stars and Clarke is his partner."

Clarke glared at the door of the dance studio, coffee thermos in her hand and gym bag slung over her shoulder. She reached up to adjust her bun, tight as it was; by midday though, she knows it will have already fallen out, because the show’s rehearsals were intense and non-stop. They barely got to eat lunch most days; the network wanted their money’s worth after all, and they were going to get it by any means, even if that meant ten-hour rehearsals for days on end.

Music from the next studio over–of course Cage and Singh were already at it–floated out into the hall, a fast mambo beat that clashed with the softness of the early morning light. It matched the hurried beat of her racing heart perfectly, though. Clarke willed herself to walk inside, where Bellamy and Kane were no doubt waiting for her. Her feet couldn’t move though–or wouldn’t maybe. She couldn’t face them, not after last week.

Her phone pinged, and she whipped it out of her pocket, relieved she had found another moment of reprieve. She frowned, however, when she saw the message from Raven.

_Stop stalling–yes, I know you’re stalling. If I can’t beat Murphy, then you have to. My pride depends on it. Get your ass in that studio._

Sighing, Clarke typed out a few crying emojis with a thumbs-up to follow. It really was too bad that Raven’s re-injured knee had put her out of the competition; she deserved to win more than any of them. An astronaut grounded before she even had the chance to go into space as a champion was way cooler than an Olympic silver-medal gymnast whose publicist thought this competition would bring her back into the spotlight. As Raven sent back a strong-arm emoji in response, Clarke smiled, making a mental note to have a talk with Anya about dialing the publicity stunts back a bit. First, though, she had to face her trainer and her partner.

Finally she managed to put her hand on the doorknob, and with a burst of courage, she pushed into the room.

Bellamy and Kane were both standing by the stereo system, dressed in loose pants and tight shirts. Clarke avoided their stares as she dropped her bag at the front of the room, toeing off her shoes and discarding her sweatshirt. Silently she walked over to them, not able to help her mouth from pursing as they assessed her carefully. When she reached them, she folded her arms over her chest, raising her eyebrows in challenge. Kane just sighed and told them to start stretching.

They were halfway through their regular warm up when Bellamy, mid-stretch, murmured, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clarke snapped, refusing to look at them.

“Sorry I asked, princess,” he muttered, turning away. Clarke grimaced at the nickname, one he hadn’t used since the first weeks of the show, when all they had done was snipe and argue with each others. The strain between them had eased recently, until it was almost friendly, but after last week, it was back, though different this time: less tense, more awkward.

Neither of them made a sound until Kane announced the theme of their next dance.  
“No,” Clarke announced sharply at the same time as Bellamy blurted, “Are you kidding me?”

“Trust in love, folks,” he repeated in a brook-no-arguments tone. “That’s the name of the game. Get on board, because the network certainly is.”

Lingering awkwardness momentarily forgotten, Clarke immediately turned to Bellamy with a baleful look. She found him doing the exact same thing, and she had to drop her head to hide the smile tugging at her lips. When she looked up next, he was already standing, reaching out a hand to help her up. After a second of hesitation, she took it, not quite expecting the force of his tug. She popped up easily, then stumbled into him, an apology halfway out as his hands fell to her hips to steady her.

Her face was an inch from his chest, and Clarke couldn’t help but inhale deeply. His clean scent and the warmth of his hands at her waist brought her back to last week, standing in the shadows off-stage, cheeks wet and chest heaving, crying into his arms. He had just held her, close and careful, letting her release after their number.

She had thought she could handle it, the memorial to Wells. She had been the one to ask Kane for them to do it, anyways, as the episode airing was around the ten-year anniversary of his death. What she hadn’t been expecting was how quiet and serious Bellamy had gotten when she explained the concept of the piece, or how much heart he had put into the practice and then the performance.

They had gotten a near perfect score from the judges, and she had smiled dazzlingly standing next to him on stage. Still, the minute they walked behind the scenes, her facade had fallen apart, and everyone had stared as she, still dressed in her sparkling skirt and top, had burst into tears, not able to move. Everyone except Bellamy, that is, who had calmly and quickly pulled her into a deserted corner, away from any lingering cameras and invading paparazzi. He had held her as she cried, shielded her from prying eyes. Never in a million years would she have expected that from her arrogant partner who, from their first practice, had antagonized her, criticized her, challenged her more than any other person she had met.

“Are we just going to stand there all day?” Kane drawled, startling the both of them.

Bellamy dropped his hands and Clarke jerked away, though she couldn’t help locking gazes with him when they turned toward the mirror. She thought she caught a quick flash of curiosity and even heat in his eyes, but then his expression shuttered, turning focused.

They had a routine to learn, after all.

* * *

The music swelled, and Kane had to shout to be heard. “Turn, turn, turn, swirl around, sweep out and in–”

Clarke huffed as she knocked backwards into Bellamy, who grunted from her heel landing on his toes. They both stumbled out of the hold, sweaty and frustrated.

“C’mon, guys, focus,” Marcus admonished. He gave them his most disappointed look, which, after the third day of rehearsal, had lost its potency.

“It’s not working, Kane,” Bellamy said, his breath hot on the back of her neck.

“You’re too stiff.”

“I am not!” Clarke and Bellamy shouted at the same time.

Their choreographer frowned at them, then sharply ordered, “Water break.”

Silence rang in Clarke’s ears as she sucked down gulp after gulp; the absence of sound was strange after listening to the same song on blast for the past three hours. Maya had even popped her head in a while ago and asked them to turn it down, and Kane, surprisingly, had obliged (nobody could deny Maya anything, really). The only thing she could hear was Bellamy slurping on his own water bottle. When Kane clapped his hands to summon them back, Clarke ignored him for a minute, almost smiling when she realized Bellamy was doing the same.

They happened to turn back at the same time, and she did actually smile when she saw the battle-ready expression on his face, one that no doubt had mirrored her own a second ago. He raised his eyebrow in question, and she just set her shoulders back in challenge.

“Ready when you are, princess.”

Clarke clenched her jaw, glaring at him in the mirror, choosing to throw her energy into the dance rather engaging with her stubborn partner.

By the end of the day, their routine got a little better, but not much. Dramatic as ever–and probably just for the cameras–Kane looked like he was going to throw up as he dismissed them for the night and left in a daze, no doubt the two-day deadline to dancing on live television on his mind. Clarke would be lying if she wasn’t a little worried; she thrived on competition after all. She could easily see the same frustrated concern in Bellamy’s face as he padded over to the stereo. Surprisingly, though, he didn’t collect his things as she did.

“You’re staying?” She asked, watching him roll his head around, getting out the kinks.

“Yeah.” He turned away from her, fiddling with the sound system. “Might as well.”

She stared at his tense shoulders for a second before she shrugged, wrapped her scarf a little tighter, and headed out the door. If Bellamy wanted to run himself into the ground over this routine, then that was his sacrifice to make. She had dinner to get to.

Two hours later, though, she was back, belly full of food and mind full of curiosity. When she heard the strains of music wafting out from their studio she sighed, dead-tired but also resolved in her decision.  

Bellamy didn’t notice her when she came in, occupied as he was by performing their routine solo. Or their revamped routine, Clarke realized, because the way he was moving–Kane couldn’t be that creative no matter how hard he tried. It took her breath away, the expansiveness and emotion of the movements, the way he filled up the room, yards away yet all around her at the same time.

When they did lock eyes, he stumbled out of a spin, frowning when he righted himself. He said something, but she couldn’t hear over the sounds of the stereo. He jogged over to the sound system to turn it off, repeating his question– _what are you doing here_ –when the music stopped.

“Teach me,” was all she said in reply.

His eyes widened slightly at her determined, almost desperate tone, but then he just beckoned her forward, a hint of a smile on his face. Clarke dropped her outer layers in a trail as she approached, extending her arms into the starting stance when she reached him.

He fit his large, warm frame into hers, and she let out a breath at the contact. Finally, it felt right.

“Let’s figure this out, yeah?” Bellamy asked, gripping her hand tighter.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she replied with a grin, and then they were off.

* * *

Kane was suspicious when they were already in the studio the next morning, before him, and he narrowed his eyes when they began explaining their plan.

“You’re not a choreographer,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at Bellamy.

“Yes, he is,” Clarke snapped. “He works for ARK Dance in the summers. His last show was nominated for a few awards too.”

Both Bellamy and Kane turned towards in surprise, because of the vehemence in her words or the knowledge, she didn’t know. Either way, she ducked her head an inch, hoping the heat in her cheeks didn’t mean they were visibly red also. Kane let silence stretch around the three of them, working his jaw, as he decided.

“Fine,” he answered finally. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Clarke couldn’t help the broad smile splitting across her face as she turned to Bellamy. When he took her hand and rested his other one on her shoulder, he was grinning just as widely.

Kane started the music, and they counted off together, never breaking eye contact. Just before the first steps, the music swelled, and Bellamy leaned in, whispering, “Looking to you, princess.”

She laughed, then stepped forward, more than eager to show Kane just what she, and Bellamy, could accomplish.

When the last notes faded away, she was in Bellamy’s arms, an inch away from his face, and her heart was racing, hoping she had done her best to convince Kane. It took a minute–a very long minute–for either of them to step back, and she thought she felt him shiver as she slid her hands from around his neck, down his chest, and finally away.

“Not bad,” Kane finally announced, surprised and almost a little bit pleased. “Not bad at all.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy replied, equally dry and heartfelt.

“Except the turn into the bridge is sloppy. If you changed the steps before it so you’re coming in on your other side, then the transition will be easier.”

Clarke stifled a groan, glancing at Bellamy out of the corner of her eye. His lips were pursed, but when he caught her gaze, the corners of his mouth started to tug up. So they let Kane babble on, putting his mark on their project, knowing that, at the very least, the two of them were in this together.

* * *

Clarke fidgeted under the bright lights–the crystals on the bodice of her rosy pink dress were digging into her sides–as they awaited their cue and the cameras to turn to them instead of Diana, the smarmiest of show hosts.

As if reading her nervousness, Bellamy tugged her closer, tightening his arm around her waist from behind. “Steady,” he breathed in her ear.

She sucked in a breath as his warmth pressed into her bare back. “No promises.”

His chuckle made a few loose wisps of hair tickle her neck, sending goosebumps down her arm. Then she saw the blinking of the red light from across the stage–it was almost time.

She squeezed his wrist in a silent offering of good luck, feeling his chest expand behind her rapidly, the only sign that he was as nervous as she was. There was more riding on this than the competition, and they both could feel it.

When she spun out on the first wave of lyrics– _say you love me, to my face, I need it more than your embrace_ –though, she forgot about the judges, and the audience, and Kane’s admonishments before they left backstage. She forgot about her rolling stomach and her dry throat, about how she always was a step early going into the chorus and how Bellamy was always late coming out of it. Instead, all she felt was his fingers intertwined in hers, and all she saw was his brown eyes, promising her that _they can do this_.

Under the bright lights of the stage, she let herself get lost in the music, in the spin and twist and turn of the steps, in the comforting sensation of falling out of and back into Bellamy’s arms. They were so strong, so steady, always ready to support her. It made it easy to collapse into them, to rely on them to propel her forward, his power an equal match for her own steel spine.

The two minutes flew by, and before she knew it, she was leaping into him for the final time as the lyrics trailed away ( _won’t you stay, won’t you stay_ ). He caught her easily, his arms banding around her thighs, keeping her upright, her face hovering just above his. They were a breath away, and she couldn’t  _breathe_ , because it was Bellamy, and he had created this wonderful piece, and he had trusted her to do it justice. She didn’t care that there was a whole audience watching them, or a whole nation. So when his grip slipped a bit, and she slid down an inch, she let her mouth press onto his, just as easy and effortless and right as dancing with him had been tonight. He responded immediately, angling his head so he could taste her better, and she felt her chest flutter as he ran his tongue against the seam of her lips. Opening her mouth, she was about to let the kiss deepen when Diana’s voice intruded. Sighing, she smiled, and she felt Bellamy pull away, chuckling.

The roar of the cheering crowd came to her slowly, just as slowly as Bellamy let her down, sliding her against him tightly, tauntingly so that her dress bunched up at her thighs by the time her feet touched the ground.

“Unfair,” she muttered into his chest as he hugged her in celebration.

“You’re the one who decided to kiss me live on national television,” he said amusedly into her hair. “Trust me, if there weren’t eleven million people watching right now, I’d be doing something very different than smiling and waving.”

His words stayed with her, prickling underneath her heated skin as they walked over to the judges for their scores. She barely caught a word of it, dazed as she was that he wanted her too. Only Dante’s final comments penetrated her racing thoughts, as he gave glowing praise of the choreography. She beamed up at Bellamy, who looked a little stunned, as if he hadn’t really believed in his own work.

The minute they disappeared behind backstage, Bellamy pulled her aside, backing her into a wall, his arms caging her in as he leaned down to kiss her again. Just as she felt his lips brush against hers, he jerked back though.

“Was it just for the show?” He asked, brow furrowing.

Clarke bit back a smile as she reached up, framing his face with her hands. “No, Bellamy. It was not just for the show.”

Then she kissed him again, in the needy, wanton way she could when only the shadows and not a live audience was watching. He groaned, and then his arms came around her middle, pulling her in quick and close as he arched her backwards. She laughed a little at his eagerness, which was just as potent as her own. Bellamy nipped at her bottom lip in retaliation, then claimed her mouth again greedily, leaving her a little breathless. Pressing into him, she let him lead, figuring it would be alright to follow him, maybe just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


End file.
